One Nice Thing
by crackers4jenn
Summary: I want everyone to feel as appreciated as I do.” Some s3ish Office fic, complete with Pam, Toby, Michael, and a smidgen of Dwight, Phyllis, and Angela. Michael’s ploy tactics never work, do they?


It's the third 'meeting' of the day, and they still have two hours of work left.

Pam thinks Michael must be overcompensating for something, but she hasn't figured out WHAT. If Jim was here, they'd probably already have a respectable-sized list made, likelihoods ranging from _Yes, brilliant, definitely_ to _Michael Scott... or Michael Scarn?_ Obviously it makes her feel unproductive that she can't come up with anything herself.

"Alright, okay, everybody listen," Michael starts this newest assault, standing at the head of the table everyone's seated at. "Lately I've noticed an increased level of stress around the office. Frankly, it's a little alarming. As your boss, friend, and, most important, care-taker--"

"That's not true, Michael," Dwight cuts in. "Nana Schrute is listed as my beneficiar--"

Michael makes a wheezing noise, which, when properly translated, means that he's really, really annoyed. "Shut it, Dwight. I'm not--this isn't about just you, okay? This--" he addresses the entire room of Dunder-Mifflin employees, "is about us. The family that is we." There's a resounding silence. An awkward moment. And then he breaks out into song, a sweet falsetto complete with an impromptu dance number. Because he's _Michael._ "'We are fam-ily. I got all my sisters with me." He pauses for a reaction. Laughter, applause, a joint chorus effect. Gets nothing. So he tries again. "'We are fami--"

"I get it," Ryan cuts in. He forces an obviously uncomfortable smile, which pretty much speaks for everyone not-Michael and not-Dwight in the room. "We're a tight-nit bunch around here. We're... family. Got it."

"Exacta-mundo!" Michael booms, pleased with his prodigy. "Except," he backtracks, "there's been this weird tension that's been making my ulcers flare. That? Not something you want to deal with at 8 o'clock at night when it's your turn to do Slow Motion Samurai with the rest of the improv class. Ugly stuff."

"Is there a point, Michael?" Angela asks, all annoyed and bothered, like that time Jim tried to extend his pranks to other office workers by catnapping some of her more feline of figurines. She didn't talk to him for two weeks. "_Some of us_ prefer to get paid for doing the work we were hired to do."

"No one likes a brown-nose, Angela. God, just... Okay, here it is. In this hat--" Michael grabs a Phillies cap, holding it high for all to see, "I have all your names written down. We're gonna pass it around the room, pull out a name, and whoever you get--you have to say one nice thing about them."

Pam's mouth goes dry before the camera has time to even zoom in on her. This is going to be awkward. Call it a gut feeling, or just having worked at Dunder-Mifflin for way too long, whatever.

"One... nice thing?" Phyllis asks.

"Or... five, or ten, or whatever, but, yes, one nice thing. I want everyone to feel as appreciated as I do. So. Oh! Okay, I'll go first." He reaches into the cap dramatically (but that goes without saying, pretty much), his fingers wiggling through the sea of names written on Post It notes inside. He grabs one and pulls it out. Smiles a little creepily, then starts to unfurl the hastily folded paper. "Alright, here we go!" he booms. "Commemorating office relations, celebrating friendships, reuniting lost acquaintances--oh God." In a quick mood change, his face falls from complete joy to abrupt disgust. Then he cringes, a full-body shudder that makes his hair sort of shift back and forth, and sticks the paper back in the hat. "Okay, test drive. That didn't count. Let's try it--"

"Wait, wait, hold on. You drew a name from the hat. You have to say one nice thing about that person. You stated the rules at the beginning, that was a rule, and now you must comply--"

"_Alright,_" Michael cuts Dwight off. "What are you anyway, the class nerd?" With his fair share of annoyance, he replucks the discarded paper. Petulantly unfolds it. Then reads, "Toby. I got... Toby Flenderson."

There's a collective silence, and already Pam knows where this is going. She looks over at Toby--his face is at least a full 3 shades brighter red than it normally is. He's slouched over, but she can't tell if it's a normal slouch, or an induced-by-public-humility slouch. Maybe a two-for-one combo of both.

"See! This is impossible," Michael whines, oblivious (or maybe not) to Toby's embarrassment. "It's a suicide mission, I just--basically I shot myself in the face."

Phyllis stares at Toby in concern, then kinda whispers, "I don't think you should be saying that stuff, Michael."

"Oh, what do you know, Phyllis? Seriously, have you even _MET_ Toby? I just--" Another shudder of disgust. "Eeckkk."

With a resigned sigh, Pam stands up. Sometimes she feels like a tired parent scolding her misbehaving child. And, frankly, that's a relationship she doesn't really want to have with her boss. It's a little weird. Despite that, she holds her hand out and says, very sternly, "Give me the paper."

Michael is shocked into a brief silence. It doesn't last long. "What?"

"If you can't think of a single nice thing to say about Toby, fine. I'll do it."

"Uh, okay." He stands there for another uncomfortable moment, then slides the paper across the table. "Good luck with that."

Once Pam gets the paper, her determination starts to dim. It's one thing to make a move to make the situation less awkward for all, namely Toby, but it's an entirely other thing to actually MAKE the situation less awkward. Especially with everyone now staring at her, waiting. Expecting. Her confidence flickers. "Okay," she says, a little too brightly, like some peppy cheerleader Roy or Jim would've liked in highschool, and focuses on Toby. He's not quite meeting her eyes, which ups the overall uncomfortable feeling. "Toby Flenderson," she reads. "I think I'm gonna hafta break Michael's rule, because I can think of more than one thing to say."

"Highly, highly unlikely."

She ignores Michael's interlude, as usual, continuing, "First off, there's his name. _Toby Flenderson._ I think, as far as names go, his is probably the nicest. No offense to anyone, but you can't really beat Flenderson. It's kinda like the Gold Medal of names. And, uhm, he has really nice eyes. I don't know, they're just kinda... nice."

"Vomit."

Pam's smile tightens as she glares at Michael, but it softens again when she stares down at Toby. His face is still red, but this time for a different reason, she thinks. "He's a really great runner. He's probably the fastest person I know."

"Absolutely not true," Dwight interrupts.

"I think he could probably outrun just about anybody here."

"Falsehoods! Michael," Dwight complains, "this is a blatant lie. Since the age of eight, I have had the stealth AND the speed of a midsize steer. It's a proven fact that I can outrun just about every possible civilian--"

"AND," Pam finishes, drowning out Dwight, "he's a really great dad to Sasha. Which is important."

There's a beat that passes, everyone staring at Toby--except Stanley, who's busy with a crossword puzzle, and Creed, who thinks Kevin is Toby.

Then Michael guffaws. "He lived in his _car_, Pam. That's just gross. Also, unsanitary."

With a sigh and an eyeroll, Pam sits back down. Getting through to Michael would be like chipping away at a brick wall with a rubber eraser. Pretty much impossible. But when she glances again at Toby, sees a barely-there smile on his face, sees him sitting up a little straighter, she thinks that maybe, just maybe, it's okay she didn't get through to _everyone_. Just the right someone. 


End file.
